


Once Upon a Dismember

by chinchillasinunison



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 00:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinchillasinunison/pseuds/chinchillasinunison
Summary: Piggy survives the fall but gets some good ol' fashioned retrograde amnesia. Jack uses this to his advantage.





	Once Upon a Dismember

The boys all watched as Piggy’s fat body plummeted from the cliff. It didn’t fall onto one of the jagged rocks below, or straight into the sea, as one might have expected, instead it fell onto a ledge in the cliffside a little ways below all of them, and remained mostly intact. Still, even if it was brief, it was quite a fall, so it produced the same results and emotional reactions as it would have otherwise if he'd fallen the full 40 feet. Jack still used his demise as an example, Samneric were still taken hostage, and Ralph still fled into the forest.

Afterwards, Roger came down from his post to join the others, who were looming over Samneric. Jack turned around and glared at him.

“Why aren't you on watch?” he barked.

“I just came down--”

“Look, I don't care. Just go down there and clean up that  _ mess _ ,” the chief ordered, then said what seemed to be more like thoughts aloud, “Just looking at it makes me sick. It's like a big, greasy stain. The ugly little pig…”

“But what about Samneric?” Roger demanded, twisted his feet firmly into the rock beneath him. He wanted his share of the fresh meat.

“We’ll deal with them up here ourselves, don't you worry,” he gave Roger a forceful prod from his spear, “Now go!” he growled.

Roger complied, of course begrudgingly, and trekked down the steep, treacherous face of the cliff, complaining to himself in a quiet voice all the while. His feet touched down on the ledge and he approached the body. He was surprised to see it in such good shape (relatively speaking, of course; it's not like Piggy was ever in good shape to begin with). Sure, it had lacerations all over it, some with the offending conch shards still lodged inside, and there was a small pool of blood surrounding the head, but otherwise the corpse didn't seem much like a corpse at all.

Roger squatted down beside the body and pushed it a few times indifferently, shifting some fat with his hands and tipping it slightly, but not much else.

“Come on, Fatty…” he grumbled, “Move!”

He started pushing again, but still only with about as much toil as he put into it before. Just because he had to do this didn't mean he had to waste any actual effort on it.

He sighed. Why did he have to be down here? Jack was punishing him for acting out of line, sure, but it's not as if the result wasn't something Jack hadn't secretly wished for this entire island fiasco. Maybe he had other plans…?

Roger hummed. He and Jack were good friends but sometimes they didn't see eye to eye. On a literal level that was because Jack was unusually tall for a twelve year old and Roger was a bit younger than him, but they had different ways of thinking through things as well. Though Jack definitely had his impulsive moments, he was more of a strategist. At least, he was in comparison to Roger, whose main method of problem-solving was throwing rocks at things.

“Come on, Fatty!” He muttered again, putting a little bit more muscle into the accompanying push. Just then, actually focusing on what he was doing, he noticed something. Some… movement of some sort…

Roger knew what it was immediately.

It was breathing. Breathing and a pulse.

Roger quickly withdrew his hands from the body, as if he had burned them on an open flame. The body flopped back to its original resting position, and Roger could see an ever so faint rising and falling of the chest.

No. No, it couldn't be. He couldn't have survived that. There was no way!

Roger watched as the eyes of the “corpse” twitched beneath the eyelids, and said eyelids flitted open. Piggy stared directly up at him and said, in a weak voice, “H-hello?”

Now, Roger wasn't one to frighten easily, but he had his limits. Seeing what he thought was a dead body suddenly move and speak was definitely one of them. He screamed and scrambled up the cliff face, not caring how Jack would probably kill him for not doing his job.

“Jack! Jack! There's something I need to tell you!” he called out as he climbed up the last ledge to the rest of the tribe. Such an exclamation was uncharacteristic of the normally quiet Roger, so all eyes were on him.

“Oh, you're back!” said Jack, sounding a bit surprised, “I trust that little mess was cleaned up, right?”

Roger ignored his question, “He’s back!”

“Who’s back? Ralph?”

“No, Piggy!” Roger shouted, “Piggy's back! Back from the dead!”

Everyone gasped and a murmur passed through the group of boys.

“What, you mean like he's a ghost?” asked Maurice.

“Now Maurice, don't be ridiculous,” the chief dismissed, “I mean, honestly! Piggy as a ghost? What a stupid idea!”

“No, he’s not a ghost…” Roger clarified, “When I was down there his body started moving and… and he talked to me.”

The whispers between the other boys grew as they squabbled and gossiped about the new information.

“You swear you aren't pulling my leg?” asked Jack with a raised eyebrow.

“No, of course not!”

Jack stewed it over in his mind while Roger asked, “What should we do, chief? Do you want me to launch another boulder at him?”

“I’d very much like to see it for myself first,” the chief said finally, “Then I’ll make a decision later.”

And so Jack had Roger lead him down the cliffside to the ledge where Piggy had landed. Maurice tagged along too, simply because he was curious and that Jack didn't really care too much about this whole ordeal to object. The three hopped down onto the shelf and saw Piggy. He was sitting up now, the Schroeder's Cat-like status he briefly had now fizzling up around him. He peered back at them cautiously, with squinted eyes.

“H-hello? Is that you again? Would you mind helping me up? I don't think I can do it by myself. I hurt all over…”

Jack stepped forward and said tensely, “Why should we, Fatty?”

“I… I don't really have an answer…” he said sadly, then paused as though he was just struck with something, “Wait! There it is again! You called me it too, like the other one did when he woke me up!” He seemed strangely excited, “Is… is that my name?”

Maurice cocked his head, “What? You mean Fatty?”

“Yes.”

“You… you don't remember your own name?”

Piggy shook his head, specks of blood flinging off it.

“No. My eyes are blurry, and my head’s all blurry too. I can't remember much of anything.”

The three boys looked at each other.

“Well, what do you remember, then? Do you recognize me? Any of us?” Jack posed the questions with a slight air of suspicion.

Piggy rubbed his face in distress as his eyes flicked across the trio.

“I'm… I’m sorry…” he said breathlessly, “I can't remember you. I can't remember anything before I woke up. Not any of you, or what's going on, or where I am, or even who I am!” There was a tearfulness to his voice now, “D-do you know how scary that is? It’s like being stuck on a raft alone at sea, no supplies, no other people, nothing! And you don't even know how to sail!”

With this he burst out crying. The sniveling was so obnoxious that Roger immediately started towards him, looking about ready to smash his skull in with his bare hands, but Jack held him back.

“What are you--”

“Hold it!” Jack ordered in a harsh whisper, “Think for a second. Look at him. He’s crying real tears. He can't be that good an actor. That, and he’s got his face all covered. He’s not on his guard at all. If he had his head in full working order, he’d suspect us to do our worst. But he's just sitting there, like a lame duck, almost like he doesn't know we’d hurt him. Mates, I... I think he's really telling the truth, that he's got… what's it called?”

“Amnesia?” Maurice suggested.

“Gesundheit.”

“Well, why does that matter?” said Roger, his voice low to match the other two, “He’s not worth anything to us! And with Ralph still out there somewhere, we should just get rid of one of them while we have a chance!”

“Oh, that's the problem with you, Roger, you lack vision!” Jack drew him close and said, “Our little fat friend over there may just be our most valuable asset, if we play our cards right…”

“How do you mean?” asked Roger.

Jack said nothing, only flashing a deliciously scheming smile. He turned to Piggy (or Fatty, as he believed himself to be named), who had wound down from his bawling.

“Oh, well, yes, all that is very sad, I suppose,” said Jack, trying his best to sound sincere but failing, “But you don't need to worry about that,” he slung an arm over Maurice, “Your good friend Maurice here will bring you up to speed.”

“Wait, I’m doing  _ what _ _?”_

“Just play along!” Jack muttered quickly in his ear.

“Oh, that's so nice!” exclaimed Piggy, “Thank you! Can… can you help me up too? Like I said before, I hurt all over, so I don't think I can by myself.”

Maurice shot Jack a glance. The chief silently urged him forward, and he huffed in response and assisted the fat boy in standing.

As Jack and Roger climbed back up, Maurice lagging behind with Piggy (or was it Fatty?), Roger spoke to his friend, in a way both playful and genuinely wondering.

“What are you planning, Merridew?”

The chief grinned.

“Roger, do you know what's the best thing a hunter can use to trap his prey?”

“No, what?”

Jack paused for dramatic effect. He did that quite a bit, Roger noted. It must've been a bit of showmanship left over from leading the choir. His grin grew a little wider.

“Live bait.”

 

* * *

 

Fatty stood there in the middle of the forest, slight tremors going through his body as he waited. He was so nervous. The chief had given him such an important job and he didn't want to fuss anything up. It seemed odd to him that Jack would give someone who barely had any memories as much responsibility as he did, but he was so excited about being so useful (for some reason...) that he didn't complain.

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He wasn't sure how to feel about the chief. Based on the weight of what he assigned him to do, he supposed Jack thought highly of him, but the hostile way he acted when they first met (at least, when Fatty woke up) seemed to contradict this.

Fatty had a much more favorable view of Roger. He was the one who first came down to help him back up, after all. At least, that's what Maurice told him he was doing...

Ah, Maurice. Fatty harbored many great and thankful feelings for him. He was so kind, so helpful, so funny. He aided him in understanding where he was, and what mattered, and where he fit into it all. He wished Maurice could've been by his side right now. But he knew that the role he had to play was one he had to play alone.

Fatty looked anxiously at the blurry sea of green surrounding him. Jack said he'd know when he’d seen him, didn't he?

That's when he spotted it. A splash of yellow suddenly appear on the muddy green backdrop. He felt every part of himself tense up in anticipation.

Maurice had told him about this boy, this rogue agent who hid in the woods. He told of how he and Jack used to be great friends, but he was spiteful of Jack because of how much better he seemed to be in every way. One day, Maurice said, they exiled him, only for him to come right back during a feast. Maurice didn't go into the details but he said someone was killed. The next day he stormed their fort with a small group of rebels armed with spears. The tribe had managed to successfully defend themselves, but the boy, named Ralph, had escaped. It was during this confrontation that Fatty had been pushed off the cliff and hit his head and, consequently, lost his memory.

Maurice had painted the story in broad strokes, but he had such a flair in telling it that Fatty ate it up. The narrative, to a confused brain longing for answers and purpose, was satisfying to a point where Fatty didn't bother asking too many questions.

That didn't mean he necessarily didn't have any. For instance, one he brought up was if he'd just been pushed off the cliff, then what were those bloody sharp bits stuck in his belly? Maurice told him that they weren't from anything important and that it was best to leave them in, as taking them out might make his bleeding worse. It didn’t really answer the question, but he kept it in mind. He might've asked why he seemed to be the only one who wasn't painted, but Maurice had distracted him with an unrelated anecdote, so he wasn't sure if he really said something or not.

Fatty stared at the smear of tan and yellow as it came closer. It stood to full height and, now seeming to notice the other party, stopped dead. Fatty heard a noise, hard and hollow, that was likely a wooden spear being dropped to the ground.

He wished he had a spear. At least then he wouldn't be so terrified. But Jack's orders had been strict. He was to go in the woods just as he looked when he woke up, otherwise everything would fall apart.

A voice broke the silence in the warm, thick jungle air. It crackled as it travelled through the heavy atmosphere, as if the weight of the heat were crushing the words themselves.

“Is… that… you? Is that  _ really  _ you?”

Fatty said nothing as the figure drew near. He felt a finger gingerly touch his cheek, trail down and drift away.

“You’re… you're real… you're  _ really _ real…”

The boy in front of him seemed to feel he was as much in the presence of a phantom as he did. There was a pregnant pause as Fatty squinted, wanting desperately to read his expression. Just then, the mass of color that suggested a human being pounced on him. At first he panicked and tried to break free from the assault. However, in a few seconds he realized he wasn't being attacked. The arms were tightly wrapped around him, but they were not trying to choke him, or wrestle him to the ground. No, this was the tightness of an embrace, a sensation he felt as though, in another place, in another time, he must've known dearly.

“I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Ralph blubbered, the words sounding sopping wet with tears, “I’m sorry for everything! Everything I ever did! I'm sorry I never listened! You were right! You were always right! A-and I didn't know that 'til you were gone! Trust me, I didn't mean to leave you! I thought you were dead! B-but you're not! You’re here, you're really here and I… oh, god, could you ever forgive me?”

If Piggy was there in that moment, that all might've been very touching.

But he wasn't. Not really, anyway.

“Of course I forgive you,” Fatty replied, having no real idea what he was forgiving.

He felt the grateful, yet still sorrowful, sobs that wracked Ralph’s body, and he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty for what he was about to do. But then he remembered Jack's words before he was sent out ahead:

“Remember: always be on your toes. Ralph is a tricky one. Lures you in with a pretty face and a decent disposition, but don't let it fool you. He’s dangerous. No matter what he tries to sell you, don't believe a word. He’s just trying to play you a fool. And you're no fool.”

Right. He was no fool. Anyone with half a brain knew an armed rebel tucked away in the woods was a threat that must be dealt with. And yet…

“How did you get away from them?” asked Ralph, still astonished, “Where did you hide?”

Fatty swallowed and wiped some sweat from his forehead.

“Let me show you.”

Fatty carefully retraced his steps, which, it should be noted, was a daunting task for someone with his eyesight. But he found his brain was oddly skilled at picking up details in color and other things his eyes could more easily track. It wasn't long before he saw the red of Jack’s hair glowing faintly in the undergrowth.

“Are… are you sure we're going the right way?” he heard Ralph say behind him, “I mean, you're not even wearing your specs! How can you see where you're going?”

Fatty turned around and blinked.

“My… my what?”

Ralph seemed to look at him in baffled silence for a bit.

“Your sp--”

He didn't even have the time to finish that simple sentence. The hunters made their move on him. On Ralph, who was completely defenseless, having let his guard down for the one person in his entire world he felt he could trust. It was just as Jack had choreographed.

Fatty stood on the sidelines and watched it all happen. There were blurs of motion and what looked like one big, writhing mass made of boys and warpaint. There was a crescendo of screams and shouts and chanting, all of the blood-curdling variety. Somewhere in it he heard something about a stick sharpened at both ends. But the worst of all the sounds was a gurgle. A death rattle that pierced through the mob and shook Fatty to the core. He hid himself behind a tree after that. He wouldn't dare look.

After the dust settled, he returned from his hiding spot to the area where the hunt took place. He saw red coat the ground, and a pile of pink, and the centerpiece, something long and slender, yellow on top of tan on top of brown.

As he approached, he felt a shot of pain in his foot. Looking down, he saw a small, shiny object on the ground, from which some sharp part had sliced into the soft pads of his feet. He recognized its gleam. It was something Jack always wore on his belt. Fatty never knew its purpose, but it was always there. It must've fallen off him during all that commotion.

He picked them up and noticed something. Out of one part of it, through the spiderweb pattern of broken glass, he saw little scuffs and dents and details in the earth, the little shoots of grass, and the gash in his foot, all in perfect clarity.

These… these were his specs…

These were  _ his  _ specs _ … _

He had them since _ he was three… _

Jack… Jack had  _ stolen _ them… earlier...

Jack… his last name was Merridew… he wanted people to call him Merridew…

Piggy gripped his skull as memories came flooding back to him. He paced about, trying to distract himself from the overload of information that hit him like a tidal wave. Suddenly, he remembered everything. Everything from the island and beyond. His auntie, her candy store, the plane, the conch, the world outside at war...

Ralph...

Oh god, Ralph.

He didn't want to look. He already knew it was there. There was no point. But look he did. And through the spiderweb, he saw it.

The head of a little blonde boy put up for display on a pike, his hair long and matted, the eyes completely lifeless, the jaw hanging open uselessly. The fresh blood dripped from the base of the neck and down the stick. Piggy could swear he heard the rattle again, but that might've just been the sound escaping from his own throat.

He outright collapsed in front of the head and started wailing. It was all his fault. Ralph had finally learned to trust him, something he had longed for since this island misadventure began, only for him to knowingly lead him to his doom. And he wasn’t quick to blame his state of mind on it either, like he had with Simon. He was scared then, and everything was dark and confusing, and Ralph’s situation definitely shared some of those elements, but with the latter there was a difference. With Simon, it was a split second decision, in the heat of the moment. That could be rationally explained away. But here, it was highly a calculated endeavor. It was slow and steady. He could’ve turned back at any point. The thing was, he had almost wanted to. Even without the memories of a civilized world, Piggy had some sort of inclination things weren't right. But still, he played along with Jack anyway, because he didn't know he had another option. Because he had been lied to, exploited, and twisted in such a way that he couldn’t recognize an honest proposal when it stared him in the face.

Piggy pounded the ground, yelling hysterically about how it should've been him that died instead. That he was the one who truly deserved it.

He’d been played for such a fool. And that's all he was now, nothing but a great, big fool...

**Author's Note:**

> probably super cliche (like GOD you're really using amnesia??? what's next??? somebody has an evil twin???) but it's been buzzing in my head for a while. also for someone who loves this boy so much i literally cannot stop writing about piggy being sad and/or traumatized by various things and i wonder why.


End file.
